


Fever Pitch

by cherryvanilla



Series: Broadway Damage [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Broadway RPF
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Clubbing, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gay Clubs and Broadway. Or, When Jon Met Zach..</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> The tweets contained within are real. The text message is of my own creation.

_July 9, 2010_

If you’d met him a few months earlier, you could have said you fell in love in the spring. Then you could have marveled at the irony because _Spring Awakening indeed_. As luck has it, you were saved this ridiculous fate. Instead, you’re currently on a plane to London on an early evening in July after having kissed his lips raw at the door of his apartment a couple of hours prior. His hand splayed wide on the small of your back and he hitched you closer; a breathless sigh pressed against your lips. _I love you_ , you thought. The shock of it made you kiss him deeper, hold him closer, until he gently eased out from your arms and laughed, “Get out of here, Broadway boy.”

“That’s West End boy,” you reminded. His eyes dimmed a little, as if it was only now sinking. “Don’t worry I’ll steer clear of all those East End boys.”

He smiled. “Now The Pet Shop Boys will be in my head all day, asshole.” At least that look was off his face. Mission accomplished.

With one more lingering kiss you were gone.

Now on the plane you move to turn your phone off, but not before checking it one last time. You have a secret twitter you use just to follow people you find interesting (okay, so you set it up shortly after you met him, big deal). You open the App for the first time that day and scroll down absently, until your finger pauses on one particular sentence.

 _sun rises. departures imminent. bittersweet. but somehow perfect. and imperfect. as it should be._

A smile tugs at your lips and you watch as the screen goes dark. You remember a lot of imperfections. Particularly that first evening. You close your eyes as your mind drifts.

 _June 5, 2010_

It’s a sticky early summer evening and you’re bored out of your skull. The First Saturday at the Brooklyn Museum is holding no appeal tonight. Neither is Brooklyn in general for that matter. You decide to fly solo to Chelsea. You end up in a swanky gay club: the kind of gay club wherein celebrities flock because it’s more discreet than others and if they’re going to get outed by the Papz may as well do it in style. Naturally, this isn’t why you go. You’ve been out so long you can barely recall being in. You go because the DJ drops the best beats in all of lower Manhattan and the clientele falls into the ‘ridiculously attractive’ category.

There’s a guy at the bar you recognize immediately. He falls into the ‘more than moderately attractive’ category and is clearly here for the former aforementioned reason rather than the latter. After all, he can’t expect to be entirely inconspicuous anymore once he’s breached ‘Space: The Final Frontier.’ He’s drinking what looks to be a vodka cranberry and chatting adamantly with the bartender, hands flailing. He glances to the right and catches your eye. A second later, he’s squeezed two spots down at the bar next to you.

“You’re that Broadway guy,” he yells in greeting, over the thumping beat of the music.

You roll your eyes, even though said eyes are greatly admiring the swell of his biceps beneath his tight Foo Fighters t-shirt. “How very astute of you,” you yell back, hoping the sarcasm isn’t swallowed by the both the volume of your voice and your surroundings.

“And you’re on that show,” he says with a snap of his fingers.

“Two for two. Care to make it three?”

“You know exactly who I am,” he replies with confidence, holding up three fingers.

“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner, folks.”

“Are you my prize?” You gape at him, about to be severely disappointed in his commonality until he bursts out laughing and takes another gulp of his drink.

“I’m gonna be on Broadway too! Well, off-Broadway. Just finalized the deal.”

Treacherously, your theater loving heart does a somersault but you steadfastly ignore it. This is Zachary Quinto of Heroes and Star Trek fame, not some struggling Broadway dreamer who had to wait tables for years before catching a break. You intimately know what that’s like and you’re tired of A-listers stealing roles just because of their name. “Yeah, I bet those try-outs were rough on you, Spock,’ you say sarcastically.

He glares at you for a moment. “Anyone ever told you you’re quite the bitch?”

You throw him a self-satisfied smirk. “Probably as often as they’ve told you.’

Amazingly, he grins. “What are you drinking?”

That startles a laugh out of you and you shake your head, resigning to the fact that you’re apparently not moving from here for a while. You should say thanks but no thanks yet something makes you stay; you could do far worse tonight.

“Gin and tonic.”

He laughs and orders you another. “Surprised you didn’t say a Gimlet.” His tone is light and teasing and he angles his body away from you, resting one arm on the bar. You’re given a perfect view of his body – fitted shirt and tight dark jeans that don’t leave much to the imagination. Your mouth is suddenly very dry.

“Betty Draper I am not,” you manage to toss back.

His eyes brighten at that and he leans, closing the distance slightly. “A man after my own heart.”

You deliberately let your eyes drift in the vicinity of his crotch. “Something like that.”

Amidst the swirl of colors overhead you watch heat flicker in his eyes and hold his gaze for a beat until he jerks his head at the dance floor. “Want to show me what you got when you’re not being paid to do it?”

You take a long sip of your drink and set it down with a thump on the bar. You lean in close, your breath fanning against the shell of his ear. “Not really. You got a better offer?”

This close you can hear his sharp intake of breath. “Bathroom. Five minutes,” he replies, voice deeper than before. Your cock jumps and you nod, a little shakily. Then he’s gone. You collect yourself as much as you can and reach for your drink. Paul, the bartender, gives you a knowing smirk. You return it and raise a finger to your lips, rolling your eyes. He pretends to lock his lips with an imaginary key and turns to a patron at the far end of the bar. You run your fingers through your hair and wait. You vaguely wonder why you’re conforming to his need for anonymity and decide you need to get laid more often.

You head across the dance floor to the bathrooms, which are clean and rather respectful. He must spot your shoes because you hear a rapping from the second stall. Upon standing in front of it, it opens and then you’re being tugged inside. He presses you against the side wall.

“You’re not handicapped,” you point out, sardonically, gesturing to the large stall.

“Shut up.” His voice is a low rumble, scratchy and you’re instantly hard.

“Yes,” you agree and surge forward, catching his lips with your own. He opens to you immediately, hot, wet and dirty. You should have known he’d be like this. He presses you against the wall, nudging a hard, muscular thigh between your legs. You suddenly feel too hot in your polo shirt and jeans. His hands find their way to your hair, carding through the long strands and tugging until your head falls back with a thud. You groan as his mouth breaks away to bite kisses down the column of your throat before stopping to suck hard.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, your hips snapping forward on their own accord.

“Jonathan,” his breathes and it hits you it’s the first time tonight names have been uttered.

“Call me Jon.”

He licks a line across your neck to the other side before sucking hard again. “Jon,” he murmurs between wet, suckling kisses.

Your hands fall onto his hips, holding him in place. Your fingers tighten against his belt and your arch your neck further. “Zachary,” you try out.

“Zach,” he corrects.

That’s settled then. Your fingers inch to his belt buckle.

“Do it,” he says.

You’ve always been praised for your ability to take direction. You undo his belt with deft fingers and slide down his zipper. He moans appreciatively when your hand slips inside. In return he palms your erection with the back of his hand. His cock is thick and hot under your touch. He gasps and finds your lips again. You explore his mouth with your tongue, first slowly then with a sense of desperation you haven’t felt a long while; the utter desire to make someone else fall apart with your touch. He’s making soft keening noises against your lips, his breathing harsh and uneven. You feel the pre-come spill from his cock and you spread it with your thumb. He kisses you harder and finally works his hand into your pants. You groan at the feel of his rough, inelegant fingers and whine when he tears his mouth from yours with a slick slide, pressing kissing into your jaw.

“You know, I went to school for drama.”

You close your eyes and inhale deeply. “Is that so?” You say; voice feigning indifference.

You jerk him with a sharp twist of your wrist and he moans, his weight shifting, pressing your bodies impossibly closer and trapping your hands between your bodies. “That’s so,” he drawls slowly and mouths along your jaw and up to your ear. “Carnegie Melon.”

You freeze, body tensing. “Are you serious?”

His hand falters and he pulls back to look at you. “Yeah.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “I’m from Pittsburgh.”

His eyes widen just slightly. “Same here, Broadway boy.”

You shake your head again. “Come ‘er,” you say quietly and tug him back in. He kisses you slowly, one hand on your jaw. You swallow around your heart in your throat and stroke him harder. He follows suit and soon you’re groaning and shaking against one another.

“God, yes,” he mutters against your lips. You bite down on his lower lip and cry out softly as you come. You feel his body tense in your arms and then hot fluid rush over your hand. You keep stroking him until he shakes you off. He slumps against your side, mouthing lazily at your throat. You stroke a hand absently down his back.

“My point being,” he begins, voice rough and shaky, “yes, I did have to audition. And I’m damn proud to have gotten the role.”

You kiss his temple, chagrined. “What’s the role?” you ask, voice scratchy and sex-drenched.

“Louis in Angels in America,” he replies, modestly.

He’s shocked you for the second time in five minutes and amazingly neither of these things had anything to do with sex.

“Fucking hell,” you breathe, sincerely impressed.

“Yeah,” he responds, shifting against you. You can feel a small smile shape against your neck.

“Guess I _am_ your celebratory prize, huh?”

He laughs; you like the sound of it.

“Something like that,” he quips.

The clean-up is significantly less awkward than your prior casual hook-ups. Perhaps because you talk about theater and Pittsburgh and your possible breakthrough to the West End which is a near done deal. You spend at least twenty minutes just leaning against the sweat-slicked wall, completely tucked away and buttoned up, sharing a secret cigarette and casually talking until he says he needs to get going.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” He says as he opens the door to the stall.

The smile that’s been plastered on your face for at least he past five minutes fades immediately and your jaw clenches. “Yeah, right. See ya.”

He frowns at you. “Wha –? About the play. Please don’t mention it anyone. The news won’t be officially breaking for a few weeks. Lots of legal shit and all. You know how it is.”

Oh. You feel your face flush and immediately wonder why the alternative had bothered you so much.

He’s still frowning though, fingers tapping against the door of the stall. “I’m not some Hollywood closet case, you know. I’ve got one foot out the fucking door. It’s all this Trek shit that’s… delaying the inevitable.”

You nod quickly, heart racing again. You don’t know why you even care or why he’s bothering to explain. “Yeah, no, of course. Showbiz, right?” You laugh a little and it sounds strained even to your own ears.

Those intimidating eyebrows are still tightly drawn together but his frown has faded. He studies you for a moment. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

You nearly choke on nothing but air. “Dude, this was fun and all but --“

He steps back into the stall and crowds you against the wall. Your breathing quickens immediately. “You don’t want to?” He asks; his voice smooth like molasses.

 _Jesus, this guy_ , you think.

You look up into his intense brown eyes. “It’s not like this would ever work. Come on.” You’re not sure who you’re trying to convince.

“I’m proposing dinner, Jon, not a civil union.”

He tucks a runaway piece of dampened hair behind your ear. Damn you for being a romantic.

You hope you’re not about to make a huge mistake and say, “Okay. I have rehearsals until 7.”

“How about 8:30 at Daniel?”

You give him a patient look. “There’s no way you’ll be to get a table.” You don’t care if he’s a rather mainstream actor; it simply won’t happen.

He runs the side of his index finger down your cheek. “I have friends in high places,” he promises. “See you then, Broadway.”

A few seconds later you’re alone and god damn it if your grin hasn’t returned tenfold.

_________________________

 _July 10, 2010_

By the time you touch down in Heathrow you’ve beated out the play completely and want nothing but sleep. It’s after midnight New York time. You turn on your phone once you’re in the cab. He’s been busy tweeting again.

 _friendship new and old on either side. picture wrap approaching for peter sullivan. hurtling through the air somewhere is a true heart._

You try your best to taper down this feeling, but you can’t – you’re too far gone and the feeling appears mutual. You open a blank text message.

 _No longer hurtling through the air. All I want is a room somewhere, Eliza. Wish you were here. Wouldn’t it be loverly? ;-) … I miss you already._

You tilt your head back against the seat and close your eyes. Your phone buzzes immediately. A slow smile spreads across your face.

[end]


End file.
